


As the world caves in.

by squishlink



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Complicated Relationships, Eventual Smut, GeorgeNotFound-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behavior, Romance, Rough Kissing, Tough Love, We'll see about that actually, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28098105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squishlink/pseuds/squishlink
Summary: He held his breath and gripped at the handle of his pistol a little tighter as he finally moved to the entrance of the isle. His shoes squeaked against the dirtied tiles which caused the head of the what he guessed to be zombie to snap at him.Until he realised it wasn’t a zombie. He couldn’t have been more wrong.That was a man.A real, living one, that hopefully didn’t want to eat his face. Though he couldn’t be too sure of that just yet.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 135





	1. Unfortunate circumstances

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fic I discontinued a while back due to demotivation, if this looks familiar! But I'm super excited to continue it now, hopefully you'll stick around for the ride :)

The dimly lit supermarket illuminated the peeling yellow paint on the walls that were covered by poster, achievements and advertisements. As George slowly walked by, sleepily leaning against his trolley, he observed each one. A baby sat in grass too green, face too smooth, colours too bright. Staff awards for the best employee, smudged by fingerprints, the dark wooden frames left wonky and borderline unhinged. A dish of food that looked impossibly mouthwatering, alcohol sparkling, cutlery too accurately placed. But this was everyday. This was the routine of life, it never ended, and he was always so tired. The voices of everyone talking, laughing, babies crying, children loud and high pitched, coughing, became one merged buzz as he started to zone out further and further away from reality. 

_Something is wrong_. 

As his feet dragged to a stop, staff were rushing too quickly and the cars outside driving too recklessly. Suddenly, the reporters on the TV screens were too serious and their words fell over each other, an undercover scream for their children to run and the clocks were too fast and they were running on borrowed time-

“George-”

Then it disappeared. The clumsy pessimistic thoughts danced into the dark as Sapnap stood beaming at him.

Right. They were shopping. 

“Snap out of it, man. You really need to get more sleep.” He offered a tone which offered both slight tease and care simultaneously.

“So, which flavour do you want?” He shook the bags of chips in front of his face playfully, just trying to get his attention. 

That’s the day it all happened, he had felt the pressing uneasiness since he had woken up. It ate away at him all day, he identified it as just being another off day for him. But this was different, he brushed it off as well as he could, taking up Sapnap’s offer to get some shopping in an attempt to maybe free himself of the only growing dread in the pit of stomach.

The trolley grew more difficult to push as Sapnap carelessly tossed any items he found with appealing enough packaging into the kart, George swore he wasn’t even taking in the actual product. It made him have to put some actual effort into pushing their shopping around, he was happy enough slumped over the handle, head lulled to the side atop his crossed arms. His posture was terrible, he knew.

George’s suspicion was confirmed when he dropped plant fertiliser inside without a second though. 

George was out of it, but that still caught his attention. His face contorted into one of disappointment accompanied by slight amusement. 

It was a good job he had accompanied him the end, as their basic debates on what food to buy and Sapnaps ignorance with his purchases fizzled down in the overwhelming scream that filled the small shop. 

It went quiet shortly after, the beeping of the cashiers and faint buzzing of the aircon suddenly absent. The cold feeling in George’s stomach finally poured over into the rest of him, electrifying his nerves and filling him with an unrequited fear. 

“We have to go-“ He muttered, all joy that had started to fill him evaporating instantly. 

Slowly, oh so slowly a looming and distorted figure of what he could hardly recognise as a woman crawled around the corner of their isle. 

Mouth clenched down on a writhing young boy, his arm tightly squashed between the monsters teeth. His face and clothes were stained with a thick black substance that leaked from the creatures mouth. Its knotted and long hair draped down over the mangled figures thin but stretched body. It’s head was tilted to the side and glazed bloodshot eyes pale and unfocused. The pair watched in horror as the monster crunched down on the boys arm, the snapping of his bones left a sickening echo throughout the store. It swung its head to the side, wrenching the boys limb out of its socket with a meaty tearing sound.

It was as if time started up again, in that moment screams and the pounding of feet on hard ground wrung in his ears. 

George managed to snap out of whatever trance the hazy eyes of the beast held him in. He shoved the cart forward with as much strength as he could manage before grabbing his friends sleeve and running. George heard a collision and another blood curdling, almost primal scream.

They got back unscathed physically, mentally was a different story. The drive back filled with silence and heavy contemplation as to what the hell they had just witnessed. Guilt hung in the air. The two had just watched a young boy get his arm tore off and did nothing.

No words were spoken but the tension in the air as George hastily swerved through traffic was unbearable.

It seemed to be just an average day, the entire country moving as usual, or so it seemed at the time. The more he looked back on it the more signs popped up and made it obvious as to something being wrong.

The spike in the ill, the constant threats of some sort of war from foreign powers. Before anyone could take it all on it was over. The bombing started abroad. The mutants rose. It turned the whole world upside down.

After a few months the radio broadcasts grew rare and whatever government held power before had collapsed entirely. 

Years had passed since then, society was nonexistent, life was snatched away so brutally quick, it was an unforgiving world, more so than before anyway.

It had become harder and harder to remember times before all of this as the days rolled by, but there was no use trying to, he had accepted the fact there was no going back now. This is what he had to survive through now. 

Nick was gone. Not dead, but gone. They’d been ambushed and lost each other a few months back. George lived through a very pessimistic view of life, but for this situation he managed be somewhat optimistic. It was hope, Nick and him had been friends almost a decade, losing him wasn’t an option. They had been together from the start of this and suddenly not having anyone was harder than he’d like to admit. 

His tired eyes scanned over the architecture that surrounded him, most buildings covered in natural life and destroyed, it was beautiful in its own twisted way. 

The orange early evening light bled through the broken, cracked windows of the market. George's shoes crunched against the shattered glass and debris on the weathered black and white checkered floor. His gaze held traces of disgust at the rotten food filling the old isle racks. There had to be something good around here... 

The concrete giants bore cracks and the wooden structures were gone, over-taken by the forest that was reclaiming the once sprawling city. The holes perfect for small birds to build their nests and raise their own. While the world was harsh, nature was making a drastic comeback. It sort of made him feel guilty, aside from how all of this made survival so difficult, maybe that in fact was the point. It interested him, honestly most things did now. With no form of modern technology working, aside from cars on the rare occasion, George did usually find himself perplexed by the simplest of things.

It was in the apartments they found the last remaining evidence of how most of the human race met their final days. Each one was a time capsule of sorts, the lives of the inhabitants preserved for these intruders to pry into. Most bore the signs of having been looted, others were mausoleums for the unburied, crumbling bones amid plastic furniture that never decomposes. In those that had open doors, animals had made nests and brought in mud and leaf litter. Each one was a silent as the abandoned streets outside. George was always very selective and thoughtful with his looting, a trait the others lacked most of the time. In reality, it was a downside of his morales. But taking things with obvious connotations to the people who owned them previous were impossible for him to take. He went cold for weeks until he could find a thick enough jacket without any patches or personalised labels sewn into them. He knew it was stupid, and quite frankly he hated how he would even take such a thing so seriously. The people who previously wore this stuff wouldn’t hesitate to end his life in a blur of mutated instinct, but he knew that wasn’t really the person behind it. 

This pants were threadbare, frayed at the cuffs. Their original blue now a pale and battered looking, as was everything he owned. A thick dull navy sweater and heavy cedar hooded jacket kept him warm. Cracked white goggles kept his eyes shielded from the hypnotic gaze of the Endermen.

They were meant for the sun, it’s presence harsh one day then completely absent the next.

The weather varied from day to day, the seasons were a very loose concept at this point. The various bombings on order to try and contain the spread taking its toll on the weather cycle.

Overall, apart from gaining some muscle from the hard labour of living, he was near enough the same—considerably scruffier around the edges and always just slightly disheveled, but the same nonetheless.

Every time he had thought he'd found something semi-edible, it would end up dissapointing him with a hole full of mold the bottom, or maybe a few maggots. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had fresh vegetables.

He exhaled slowly, walking down the isle, observing his puff of breath swirl around itself. It was surprisingly cold considering it was still summer. Perhaps winter was nearing? Maybe it was just a particularly cold day, he couldn’t tell which he preferred the sound of.

He should probably start tracking the days..

George finally came across a small plastic jar of candies and a couple of oatmeal snack bars near the cash register. Relieved to have this trio be atleast worth something, he crammed the goods in his tattered and stained hiking backpack. There were a few food cans in there, but food was getting harder and harder to find. 

He sighed, zipping up the side of his bag as he finally came still. Listening.

He’d been feeling paranoid since he first entered the small shop, trying to brush it off, but there was no harm in just checking. His hand slowly moved to rest on his gun, just in case. You really never could be sure anymore.

The monsters that humans now shared the earth with varied. Each one having its own sick little twist to it.

What the duo saw in the shop, a zombie. Easily the most diverse branch of creature. They ranged in size and muscle, each faint gurgle from around the corner could either be an easy task or a literal death wish with a zombie. While they were dangerous, most were entirely blind. 

It seemed the eyes seemed to be eaten out by flys or just naturally decomposed first after the victim turned. It made fending them off a lot easier you had a silent weapon. Guns drew them in like moths to a flame. 

It seemed the lack of such a primary sense amplified all of their others. The dead could smell fresh blood from miles away, he estimated.

He’d spotted a long straggler on his way into the city, It's snake-like brown-grey intestines dragged in the dirt as it staggered around using only it's ears and nose for guidance. Hastily George picked up a stone and threw it further down the road he was walking down. It halted and he could hear the bones in it's stiffened neck creak as it turned it's monstrous head. Then with a snapping of it's dislocated jaws it lurched in the other direction. It blindly ran towards the sound, it’s legs bending unnaturally as it did so. He needed no other cue, taking in a light jog to get as far away from it as possible.

His hand reached towards the bandages on his left bicep, tapping at the crimson dampness that seeped through the scratchy cloth that was crudely tied around his arm.

He moved in without a second thought, not wanting the hazy eyed being to catch scent of his arm again. George made note to change the dressing once he got back to his temporary settlement.

He sighed as the shuffling behind him came to a quick halt, arms tending considerably as whatever was there now seemed fully aware of his presence.

George’s fingers hastily curled around the pistols grip as he took slow and calculated steps towards the corner the rustling has been coming from. His eyes darted between the upcoming corner and the glass that scattered the muddied floor, trying his very best not to make any more noise than he already had.

Surely if this was a zombie as he had first guessed, then it would’ve hurled itself at him already. Jaw gnashing at him as soon as it caught sent of something living. Even when tied up or missing limbs they were fuelled by one simple despite of feasting on beings who’s hearts still beat.

A small shiver ran through him as he thought of the other possibility, but he tried to shrug it off. Maybe it was a rat, a mouse even.

Admittedly he spent more time than he’d like to say standing on the very edge of the corner, just building up the courage to turn and see what was there. George has done this countless times before, but something about this was different and it put him on edge. 

He couldn’t place why, but he’d always had a good intuition for things like this. When something was off he was the first to show signs of discomfort and something about this was rubbing him the wrong way.

Slowly, he inhaled through his nose and rolled his shoulders, deciding that if he didn’t hurry this up he’d feel even more embarrassed with himself for freaking himself out more with was likely to be nothing in the end.

He held his breath and gripped at the handle of his pistol a little tighter as he finally moved to the entrance of the isle. His shoes squeaked against the dirtied tiles which caused the head of the what he guessed to be zombie to snap at him. 

Until he realised it wasn’t a zombie. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

That was a _man_.

A real, living one, that hopefully didn’t want to eat his face. Though he couldn’t be too sure of that just yet.


	2. Close Calls

A vivid green set of eyes peered at him from beyond a shattered and bloodied porcelain mask. They were every hue of the forest, rimmed cooly with moss. Their lightness reminded him of summertime, when the sun-rays warmed each extended leaf. Next to the shade of his hair, a dirtied blonde.

He was slumped back against a row of shelves filled with old boxes of cereal and packaged treats. The once beloved and recognisable faces of the brand’s mascots now stained and torn. Their cheery expressions now looking a lot more dread-ridden than George recalled.

The two held strong eye contact for what felt like hours. The older males grip on his pistol relaxing just slightly as the feeling of danger seemed to fade. 

Humans could be far, far more unpredictable and deadly than mutants if they chose to live their already difficult lives making enemies and hurting the few innocent that remained. George was usually far more cautious around people than he was any other being that walked the planet with them. 

But something in the mans eyes told a different story. One of desperation and intelligence. Tolerance, and a certain shine that George could only describe as hope. It put him at ease. 

And there was the more obvious answer of him being on the floor for good reason. There was a morbidly large chunk of flesh missing from his calf, the pool of blood slowly seeping across the already muddied tiles like butter. So smooth and vibrant.

He only noticed as he shifted on his feet, the normal crunching of glass he was expecting now a lot more wet and unpleasant. The man before him was bleeding out, and quickly.

What caused it was likely going to be what it drew, the smell strong even to george himself.

Honestly, he was holding back the need to gag. The bile in his stomach churning at the sight before him. 

Beautiful, bright green eyes were such a massive contrast to the only growing pool of blood at his feet.

“Don’t shoot.”

The mans voice sounded nothing like George had thought just by looking at him. His voice was so weak, yet practically impossible to ignore.

He could listen to it all day. It was a voice to sink in as it wraps you up. Yet, vibrating with power and command. His voice held authority, yet in the situation it was completely unprompted.

George couldn’t help but continue to stare at him, still not fully capable of comprehending the set of events he was witnessing. He hadn’t seen another living person in months. 

Groups from afar, sure. But he knew to keep his distance. After what happened to him and Sapnap he wouldn’t dare go near anyone voluntarily. 

Gangs usually always meant bad news. Naturally it seemed a hierarchy formed within them. Whoever placed on top becoming power-hungry and irrational. It’s hard to negotiate with strangers, let alone ones who want to end you simply because they can. Or maybe it was because humans could beg? They held a fear of death naturally and would do anything to avoid it.

From what he’s seen in his time that had to be some part of it, it was a twisted power dynamic he wasn’t too interested on dwelling on.

But that’s beside the point. 

There was always a sense of fear in him with large groups, but this was a cowering man on the floor, injured and essentially helpless.

George had the power here.

This was possibly the first time he ever held it in a situation like this. 

This mans life was in his hands. His palms were suddenly a whole lot more clammy than he recalled.

The man before him seemed to notice his staring at his wound, wincing slightly to himself at the slight.

“Now, I know what it looks like—“ 

He started, bandaged hand making a small gesture towards the gash before quickly being cut off. 

George never would usually be so uncivil, but this was life or death here. Infection from a bite was almost instantaneous. 

The longer he stood there, his chances of being mauled only grew stronger.

“That’s a bite. You’re-“ 

He halted, grip on his gun suddenly tightening back up again. He rolled his shoulder back as he fixed his aim, completely ignoring what the stranger had said.

“You’re going to turn...I’m— I’m so sorry..” 

George couldn’t help but apologise, as if this was his fault. The man before him looked in deep thought, what George could only guess to be his brain slowly being devoured and taken over by human-consuming instinct.

He hardly even realised how dry his throat had gotten, swallowing didn’t help at all. 

His hands were shaky. What was he even supposed to do here? 

Shoot him? 

George felt disgusted with himself for even considering it. But the adrenaline running through his bones urged him to do so. Finger hovering over the trigger with a sick and unwanted anticipation that he had no control over. The masked stranger certainly took notice to the shine in the others eye, tensing up just a little.

But firing would only draw more to the area, he knew that. Shoot him and bring more infected or he could reach for his baseball bat. 

Now there was an idea. 

That surely wouldn’t cause as much noise. 

This wasn’t like him at all. Contemplating how he could kill a man while looking directly at him. 

“It’s not a bite, I swear on my life! Please just don’t shoot,” The man continued to plead with him, though George paid no attention to it. His head was too full with contradictory thoughts as it was, his instincts clashing with whatever morales he had left.

His eyebrows furrowed as he struggled to figure out what the right choice to make here was. Cursing under his breath, his guard dropped momentarily.

His gaze shifted to the floor for just a second. Not even noticing the pleading had stopped, two green eyes analysing him harshly in the silence.

He reached down the baseball bat he kept at his waist. Fully coming to the decision that firing wasn’t an option here.

Zombies were certainly the most frequent out of all the creatures; other mutants rising from the nuclear aftermath of bombs meant their numbers were usually more scarce. He got the opportunity to observe zombies a lot more, the small handbook he kept stashed away in his bag held all his precious information on them and how to go about killing them in the most efficient way possible.

Something he found particularly interesting about zombies were there way of ‘sleeping’, or at least that’s the closest thing he could compare it too.

They’d stand idle on the spot for days on end, slouching and bodies rocking slightly with the wind. It seems after whatever they were hunting at the time had either escaped or became a quick snack and there was nothing else to focus on they just stopped entirely. Until a noise was made or they were touched they’d just stand there. Waiting. Listening.

It was his exact reason for wanting this to be a simple task, in his eyes he was doing the guy a favour. A swift hit to the temple would either kill him or knock him out long enough for him to bleed out.

It’s much better than being conscious while turning, it’s a truly horrifying sight and surely even worse to endure.

Yeah, he was doing him a favour by killing him. He repeated over again in his head just to calm down a little, if anything it was a weak attempt at convincing himself it was the right thing to do. 

He’d want someone to do the same thing for him if he were the bitten one here.

The moment that he let himself take his eyes off of the man before him, he was lunged at. His wrist was latched onto by a rough, damp hand, the younger of the two using what force he had from pouncing onto George to knock him to floor.

All the brit heard was a sharp ringing in his ears as the back of his head smashed into the cold tiles below him. Little did he notice the fresh bullet hole in the peeling plaster on the wall to his left. 

He’d fired. Luckily only making another unpleasant marking on the already decaying shop, but that wasn’t the point. 

Upon realising the severity of such a loud noise, his eyes widened as he forced himself focus again.

The scuffle between the two was quick and messy, George being the first to make an attempt to shove the other off of him, before receiving a heavy-handed punch to his cheek. 

Honestly to even call it a fight would be hard, for someone with all the power in the world only moments ago George fell so quickly. 

A lesson learnt, surely.

While he was recovering for the second time from the dazed state the swing had put him in, half lidded eyes lazily making an attempt to follow the stars that littered his vision. He hardly noticed the man swiping up his gun and making a few attempts at trying to pry his backpack off of him before giving up and quickly limping out of there. Well, as quickly as a man with a gash missing from his leg could in his condition. 

When he came to moments later, he was laying on a pool of another mans blood, a newly found headache making its way into his mind. George swore he could feel his brain bouncing off of the inside of his skull. 

The ringing in his ears mixed with the beating of his heart in a pleasant ache he now had to deal with. George groaned to himself, that was incredibly stupid of him. 

Hesitation was a weak quality he needed to be rid of as soon as possible. Now he’d lost his most valuable weapon to a man who surely wouldn’t even be needing it soon, walking around with an open wound like that was a death wish. 

Through parted lips he let out the contents of his lungs, slowly breathing out.

He took his time pushing himself up, staining his palms in the sticky red fluid before glancing down at his hands. 

He swore it wasn’t normal to feel your heartbeat that severely in your fingertips. 

And your wrists. 

And your arms.

It wasn’t him. _It was the ground._

Realisation hit him like a train. 

That wasn’t his heartbeat.

That was the pounding of feet. The pounding of tens of feet, easily. 

He hastily snatched up his bat, fingers latching onto the shelf beside him to help push himself up. They were coming to him. 

They had to have been idle somewhere, the gunshot being a wake up call.

He dashed out of there, feet slipping in blood as he did so. 

His movements were fast and panicky, he didn’t want to admit what he was feeling and what was surely coming his way.

Slowly he pulled the shop door open, hand wrapping around the doorframe as his head slowly moved to peer around the corner.

The ground continuing to shake below him.

He got one look before running. 

It’s all he needed.

His breath came in small spurts, hot and nervous. At his sides, pale fingers curled into sweaty fists, swinging forward as if it would make him faster. 

Behind him, a hoard of the undead were racing. Climbing over one another in a sick amalgamation of bloodied limbs and snapping jaws. 

Their pace was relentless, despite their rotting limbs they pushed forward. Driven purely by the urge to feast.

Running was his best option, even if the chances of him outrunning them was slim. They didn’t seem to tire, being able to follow for days on end if it held the promise of murder.

Throwing himself forward with even greater abandon, his eyes scanned his surroundings as he dipped and swerved through debris and broken architecture. His lungs and heart were pumping, but the air didn't seem to be enough as he sprinted forward, panic trembling in his adrenaline furled body. 

Quickly he seemed to catch onto an trial of fresh blood on that coated the cracked tarmac. Surely that’s what the hoard was following aswell, since only a few flung themselves through the shops windows to investigate inside, the others continuing on his tail. 

His eyes did catch onto something though.

A few spiders to his left, alongside a tower stung in silk-like webbing.

They stood at an easy 2 and a half foot tall. Their multitude of thin and sharp legs stretched out from its bloated and purple bodies. 

Their eyes glowed a piercing red in any lighting, fixated on him at the moment. All eyes moved separately, from what he could tell the amount of eyes they had ranged from around six to twenty two, closely packed onto their heads.

Much like zombies, they preferred to travel in groups. Though not in the slightest to the extent of the zombies huge hoards. Spiders hunted in groups of four or less. Usually cornering their prey and encasing them in a beautifully crafted cocoon until hunger struck. Their silk contained a chemical that could pull even the biggest man into unconsciousness after a few inhales. And if it were to not be as affective on you, that wasn’t a positive thing in the slightest. 

Atleast when you were out cold you couldn’t feel their sharp and quick pincers dig through your flesh when the time was right. Carving out what they could of the skin, before they’d laying their young inside the upper ribcage for the babies to feast upon once they hatched.

George had only ever seen it once, and shaking the image from his mind was increasingly difficult. Spiders were written down as his worst fear simply because of what they’d do to him after he passed.

While their groups for hunting were relatively small, the nests were skin crawlingly massive.

Mostly they stuck to abandoned apartment buildings, the large and not vacant spaces perfect for their thick webs to be stung up and their meals to be hung up like decorations.

George never dared to go near any buildings with any traces of webbing dangling from smashed windows or clinging to door frames. 

Fighting them was difficult and running was even harder. He’d always had a dislike for insects, so one that was knee height to him and could quite literally consume him was practically a personal hell.

His feet slip outwards on the wet autumn leaves as he messily rounded a corner, the cold evening air shocking his throat and lungs as his inhales become deeper, faster. With each footfall a jarring pain shoots ankle to knee, ankle to knee. Perhaps jumping that wall of rockfall onto stairs wasn't so smart.

He was gaining land, no matter how much it hurt he continued to run and was slowly but surely putting a decent distance between him and his hunters.

His heart beats frantically, all or nothing. Fail and his whole body will pay the price, run and the damage is limited mostly to shins and knees.

The feeling of hope in his stomach was so unfamiliar yet so welcome in this situation. The shopping centre, a large yet empty building he’d scouted out earlier. The main doors were barricaded and he was lucky enough to be running perfectly in-line with the small window you had to climb through to enter.

It was so close. Shelter was /so close/. 

His ankle bent awkwardly as he jumped with each stride, the loud screams of the undead behind him fizzling out in a moment of pure adrenaline. 

He reached out towards the window, just one more leap and he was free.

Only, the familiar hiss and sharp tapping on concrete from behind him caused him to glance. 

That small fault in pace gave the arachnid enough time to jump and latch onto his back, it’s pincers swiftly digging into his shoulder blades.

  
George let out a wail, this couldn’t be happening.

His arms frantically tried to pull the oversized insect off of him, twisting his torso in an attempt to remove its sharp legs from digging themselves into his hips further. 

_ George had fucked up. _

Eyes clouding over with tears he looked toward the hoard. 

They’d caught up. Hungry eyes and rotting bodies tumbling their way toward him. The smell unbearable.

This was the end. 

What a sad way to die. No glory. No honour. 

Just being torn to shreds because of his own mistake. 

_**BANG**_!

The sharp pain in his back was suddenly gone, the spiders head being blown off entirely. 

A searing pain in the form of ringing made its way to George’s ear, the shot that killed the spider could’ve killed him easily. The amount of precision that must’ve took was immensely impressive.

It’s corpse dropped to the floor, legs curling inwards on itself. 

The tears that had clouded his vision slid down his face as he stared at the twitching body at his feet.

“ _Hey! Snap out of it!_ ”

That voice. _Him._

George turned to see an outstretched arm from the window behind him, hand reaching for him. 

Though the familiar green eyes weren’t looking towards him, using his free hand to shoot into the crowd. Knocking the quickest down to be trampled by the others. 

The noise was surely attracting more, but that wasn’t the point. 

_ Snap out of it.  _

He repeated mentally, before allowing himself to reach for the mans hand. They grasped eachother tightly, the brit kicking his feet against the wall as he was heaved upwards, helping take his weight off of his saviour as he was pulled through the window. 

George was pushed down onto the floor quickly afterwards, body met with cold stone of a janitorial closet. He would’ve protested if the man wasn’t armed with his own gun. 

But he got away. 

Saying he was safe wasn’t just yet secured. Even if the masked man had gone out of his way to save him, it didn’t always mean something positive. 

Whatever motives he had, George remained wary.

His tired and shaky arms shifted him upwards, his bones aching with all the energy slowly leaving him.

He tapped around for his goggles, his sight considerably more dull after they’d slipped from his face.

His fingertips met the battered plastic rim, just praying they hadn’t snapped.

One better, pulling them to his face, they had yet another crack in them.

A minor problem in this situation, but still enough to deepen his frown just a little more.

The stranger was shooting into the hoard that was now clawing their way up the wall, desperate decaying limbs climbing their way to them. 

His eyes were so focused. Through the splits in the mask he could see the corners of his mouth.

They were pulling upwards. Enjoyment laced his expression as he let shot after shot ring out. 

Trigger happy, huh? Who knew someone could get such joy from blowing the heads of the undead open. 

With each distinctive groaning slowly coming to an end only furthered George’s distrust in the man before him.

He was efficient, and that worried him.

He stopped after a few moments, finger clamping down on the trigger only to find no reaction from the pistol.

He scoffed lightly before shutting the window, the man before George was not the same one he’d saw in the shop. 

There was no sign of weakness in his eyes like there had been before. Almost as if he had been putting up a front, ironically, a mask to gain sympathy.

The brit jumped as a hard collision was made against the window, gazed eyes stared directly at him, rotting arms banged with surprising force against the glass. Their joints bent awkwardly, mouths pressed against the glass in an attempt to break through.

They’d smash it eventually, they both knew that. Staying here for too long was just as much of a death wish as opening up the window for a hug from them.

The tension was unpleasant, but it seemed to only affect George. The man before him not taking any notice.

He moved down from the old stool he’d been standing on to reach the window.

For a cleaning closet, the ceilings were high and the window seemed to be a cut corner to avoid paying for electric. But that was just an assumption on his part.

Once again the strangers hand was offered to a him, though he said nothing. The compassion felt so foreign now, not unwelcome in the slightest, he remained on edge for what the treatment would cost him in the end.

George reached for his hand, feeling the others firm grip once again. It was just the help he needed to get on his feet, his legs pleading for a break that he just couldn’t afford to give them right now.

“Uhm, i’m George, thank you-“

Awkwardly, he tried to formulate a way ofexpressing his gratitude but he was quickly cut off. They really needed to stop going that to one another.

“Save it, _George_. I don’t want to hear it.”

His reply was snappy, practically spitting his name out as if it was something unpleasant. Pulling his hand from George’s as soon as he seemed well enough on his feet. He was cold, that was for sure.

Though it wasn’t exactly unprompted here. George was going to kill him and couldn’t even explain why. Helping him would’ve been such a better idea, or maybe he just thought that now out of guilt.

Being alone for so long does something to your empathy. 

“You can’t blame me! There’s a part of your leg missing, I just put two and two together, It was the right thing to do.”

“It was better to kill a guy begging for his life and telling you that you were wrong? Where’s the humanity in that?”

The stranger retorted, his replies practically pre-written. As if he knew what George was going to say.

While on the other hand he fumbled to know what to say, trying to justify his actions despite the guilt that clung to his back.

“You could’ve turned any second! You don’t understand-“

“No, no. I think I understand just fine. You’re lucky I saved your sorry ass. Just leave me be, okay? I’m going to figure a way out of here.”

As he turned towards the door, George took a glance down at his leg. It had beenbandaged up with old fabric, some sort of old band design now stained red. Whatever had gotten him, it had definitely cut an important vein that was refusing to stop bleeding.

He raised his eyebrows at seeing the metal plate on the strangers forearm, indents and scratches covering the now dull steel.

He’d seen other people on armour too, not anything extreme, but it made perfect sense to want to have an extra layer of protection. 

Now the mask he couldn’t understand, ‘mobs’ as he called them, could hear heartbeats. So a mask was useless. 

For George, it was a matter of comfortability, but he could sort of understand the want to seem intimidating. 

There was a smiley face crudely carved into the smooth surface.

A few pieces of dirty blonde hair stuck out from a deep green hood, while all the other pieces of clothing he wore were dirty and old, the fabric of the cloak was rich and smooth. It was strange seeing something such high quality. 

Aside from that he had scuffed brown boots that reached his knee, the golden buckles wonky and hanging off. As well as ripped, loose grey jeans.

It seemed with the apocalypse, the norms of dress seemed to fade.

Certain gangs seemed to lean more to sporting tribal face paint and large hair, dyed mohawks were the most common he’d seen. Leather jackets and generally they chose to dress in black, spikes adoring them.

If anything, what George chose to wear seemed quite boring, but like I said it was a matter of practicality.

“ _Fine, whatever._ ” 

He muttered, not being too fond of the constant dismissal of his defence.

The man twisted and pulled the door open, taking a few steps out before George piped up again.

“What’s your name? If we’re going to be stuck in here I’d be more comfortable knowing.”

He tried to copy the others snappy attitude with him, though if anything it came off as unsure and forced.

The man paused, before scoffing.

“You can call me Dream.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the second chapter, working on the third as I’m writing this lol  
> Hopefully you’re enjoying this so far, this is super out of my comfort zone for writing—so if you can let me know anything I could change/you like/anything at all!  
> I’ll be sure to get back to you.  
> Thanks!


	3. Contradictions

There was a sour taste in George’s mouth. 

He felt the need to move almost without end; if his limbs were moving the anxiety was gone, or at least he could ignore it for a good while.

Inside the walls of this abandoned mall he was trapped. He knew they were there, every time George allowed himself to listen to anything other than his irregular breathing, he could hear the gargling and slurred yells from outside. The way the reanimated corpses would hurl themselves at the walls without care, the cracking, wet sounds that would follow.

Worry was coursing through his veins as if it hitched a ride on his blood cells.

George huffed out, gently shaking the dirt and dried blood from the ridged bottoms of his boots. 

This whole place was run down. The large over-head glass pane was smashed in, remnants of its once collective being shattered across the tarnished floors. Vines and other natural life hung down from the devastation, a beacon of hope that life continues on even in the worst of situations. Light pooled down into the many stories of the shopping centre, bringing the dusty building a sense of stillness despite his current circumstances.

That didn’t quite ease the growing uneasiness in George’s bones exploring through the place.

Dream, as he was told to refer to him, hadn’t been seen since their last, rather cold, interaction.

While he knew the treatment was justified, it wasn’t pleasant for the first human interaction he had in months to be something so negative. Though, he wasn’t the one who just moments ago almost got shot, so blame wasn’t something he could place lightly.

The once bustling stores were empty, old blood was smeared across walls and counters. He could only really tell it was blood by the smell.

A deep, ever-present waft of rot filled his nostrils passing by one particularly disheveled corner-shops. It looked as if it had previously sold second-hand electronics and the like. Cables hung loose from their packaging, computer screens were splattered in a deep red.

He didn’t bother investigating.

The hoard of flies and the stomach-churning scent was enough for him to call it a day, and stumble off.

Luckily for him, the large windows that once held brught advertisements for the shops were now boarded up and decently sturdy. The place was secure, for now.

The sky has long since darkened from bleak gray to familiar black by the time his eyes turn to peaking through the wooden planks that trapped him insdie. The relentless downpour of the morning has since tapered off, now a softly falling mist which manages to paint the area in a strangely fanciful light - the light of the few working street lamps catches on the tiny droplets of water granting each lantern a delicate golden aura, and for a few moments, the strangeness of the city is far from his mind. The night was starless and the moon was covered my murky clouds that blended in with the rest of the sky.

The darkness took everything. It sucked the glowing marrow from the campfires, plucked the stars from the sky like a land baron fingering grapes from the vine. Not even the sun was spared as it plunged to the ground never to return. The darkness came and brought with it the haunts and spooks that gather at our doors at night pleading to be let in.

George was rooting around in old boxes, trying to get hold of some thicker clothes.

The hinges, rusted over squealed in defiance of the opening door. A haze of dust permeated the room, settling on any free surface it could find. The boarded over windows allowed vestiges of the morning sun to seep through, lending the shop a vibrance not seen in years. Clothing racks were strewn across the floor, ceiling caved in — it was trashed, but it worked.

The brit slid to his knees, bandaged hands sifting through the piles of fabric before him. A blinking fluorescent bulb shone down on him, tossing aside clothes he deemed unfit and stuffing the others into his pack. A smile spead across his tired face as he found a faded navy jumper amidst the fabric, shrugging his jacket off to slip into the extra layer.

Warmth was something he craved, the intact and stain-less sweatshirt was a Godsend.

It was only then he caught the smell of smoke in the air. Rubbing at the newfound scrape on his jaw, he sniffed at the air, it was definitely smoke.

Snatching up the backpack he peared out of the shop door, it was almpst impossoble to see anything at this point, night snatching away any light it could.

Aside from one, a bright glow coming from a room over to his left on the lower floor. Small trails of smoke pooled from the door frame, fading off into nothingness on its ascention to the sky.

“What..?”

He mumbled to himself, eyebrows furrowing together as he made his way to the source. His posture curled inwards slightly, as if afraid to approach.

What he had been expecting he wasnt sure, but a carefully crafted fire and the disgruntled stranger was certainly not at the top of his list.

Crimson anger arose from the burning blaze. Struggling to stay lit all the fury burst out as if it devoured the wood hungrily expressing all its rage and wrath. Smoke released out of its flames and boyishly danced around the abanded room trying the dispose all its anger from within. The small humble flame, that sat in the corner of the room, lit up its surroundings will fury pouncing out of it.

Dream was huddled next to it, cracked mask pulled up just beyond his lips as he bit at what seemed to be some sort of bread.

It was the first time George had seen anything beyond his eye. The man’s skin, especially in this lighting, was glowing. Stubble dusted over his chin, stretching up over his sharp jawline. A scar dug through his skin, starting around the base of his ear and dissapearing from view under the mask he wore.

The room looked to be previously used as some sort of staff-room. A table still stood in the centre of the room, a couple chairs misplaced around the room. One had its legs missing, which he soon recognised to be furling the flames.

His back was just slightly turned from him, the man leaning back on his arm as he sat there.

George turned to leave, but was frozen in his tracks as soon as the notion to give the other space was set into place.

“Don’t just stand there. Sit down.”

Dream’s voice didn’t hold any resentment this time around, his tone one of fatigue. The warm light illuminated his mask as he turned to glance at him, sizeable hand moving to pull it back down over his mouth as he did so, hiding away the small peak George had gotten.

Slight embarrasment sparked in his stomach as he nodded, awkwardly shifting to sit facing him.

A heavy silence settled over them, thicker then the uneasy tension in the atmosphere. George’s unsettled eyes glanced unceremoniously around and tried to avoid catching others eye thatlazily watched the fire lick at the air.

He shuffled their feet against the cobbles of the floor, awkwardly tracing the outlines of each brick with his fingers as he sat there.

While the tangible tension was undeniably there, the heat that radiated form the fire was soothing. It wasn’t as intense as before, settling slightly as it’s offerings grew short. The heat from the fire seemed to be sucked into the frigid air before ever reaching his frozen hands.

Though in due time is seeped through his many layers and helped ease the tremor in his limbs.

His mouth was almost too dry to talk as he caught sight of the gash in Dream’s leg once again.

It’d stopped bleeding, but it certainly was still fully exposed. With his gag reflex threatening to trip and a sliver of disgust sliding up his back he motioned a hand towards his general direction.

“Your—uh, your leg.”

He despised how he’d stumble over his words like that.

Offering a small grunt to himself before straightening up, properly reassuring his own nerves before continuing on.

Dream watched him quizzically, the Brit turning to dig through his bag before turning back to face him.

“You can’t keep it exposed like that. You’re practically a zombie magnet, they’ll smell you from a mile off.”

George was not at all wrong in what he was saying.

Though he was particularly worried about another creature on top of zombies.

Creepers were a different story entirely, completely silent up until they were just close enough. A quiet enough hiss building up as they blew themselves to pieces along with whoever was the unlucky victim that let their guard down. Their scaled, green bodies stiffened as something inside then triggered and combusted and annihilated anything within a close enough range to the blast.

George has only ever seen the aftermath of what a creeper had done to someone, fortunate enough to be light enough on his feet to get away before anything ever happened to him.

Flesh and deep red liquid splattered across what was left of the walls, the only thing separating the messy carcass from an animal was the barely intact arm laying a few feet away from the explosion. It was truly shocking what such damage it could do at its own expense, and why it was driven to take others out with itself like that. It went against the main shared instinct every living creature had, survive.

They baffled him and that’s what made him be far more cautious of them more than the others mentioned previous. Something willing to end you at any expend to itself was to be feared.

In his hands was a few coarse-looking bandages, or rather, repurposed scraps of t-shirt. George began undoing the bundles, pulling them apart for use.

“ _Listen_.”

Dream spoke, seeming rather unamused. He sounded exhausted.

“Let me say this real slow so it sinks in. You don’t have to act all caring now, keep your stuff to yourself. I don’t need your charity, _George_.”

Dream practically spat out his words, voice dripping with venom. His posture tensed up as his head turned away from him. His expression was already hidden, why he felt the need to further distance them was beyond him.

The brit flinched, eyes darting to the floor in response. He could understand being untrustful, but the hostility wasjust unneeded.

_What the hell was wrong with him?_

Frustration built in his mind, it wouldve been so easily to snap back in that moment. To only further distance the two of them.

But he decided against it, slowly breathing in through his nose, before speking again.

“It’s not _charity_.”

George’s tone was one of forced patience, sighing out as he pulled at the make—shift bandages in his hands. Despite his better judgement, he moved closer to the masked stranger, movements slow enough to ensure he was making his intentions clear. The last thing he needed was some new bruises, or a wound of his own to tend to.

“I’m looking after myself here, if I’m going to be around you then I may aswell not wake up to a corpse in the morning. Not everything is about you here, _Dream_.”

He mocked the way the other had previously spat his name, completely contradicting the kindness of his actions. George’s hands carefully began to wrap up the gash in his leg, pulling the fabric taut to hopefully ease the bleeding.

His hands worked from experience, recalling the countless times he’s tended to his own wounds alone.

“You’re planning on staying overnight?”

George paused, glancing up at the cracked mask with a quirked brow. Only then did he fully realise how close the two of the truly were, gulping down the touch-starved thoughts that popped up in his mind before continuing. He pulled his gaze away and came to the end of his dressing.

“You aren’t?”

Shooting back another question probably wasn’t the best, and gauging his response was difficult with the face covering. Though there was just the faintest bit of amusement that shone in his eye at his retaliation.

“I asked you first, George.”

The brit found it particularly odd how much he chose to use his name. As if he was finding excuses just to slip it into his sentences, trying it out on his tongue. Experimental.

“How do you propose you make your grand escape then?” Dream cut him off before he even got the chance to respond, busy tying the bandages into a strong knot at the loose ends.

George pulled back to inspect his work, the two now at an even eye level to one another.

“‘Haven’t quite figured that part out.”

George was smiling slightly, shrugging his shoulders in confession. The warm, flickering light of the fire softened his face considerably, bouncing off of the goggles he kept around his neck.

He was sitting back on his knees, the two only seperated by a good foot of distance.

“You gonna sleep on it?”

You could practically hear the grin in Dream’s voice, his tanned hands reaching down to mindlessly touch at the bandaging on his ankle.

The world fell still for a moment.

As if the noise of faint dripping from the shattered pipes, occasional sickening slams at the windows and creaky ceilings vanished completely.

A moment of true silence.

There was something in those emerald eyes that was so beautiful, so safe and warm. Ones that held such anger and fear had melted entirely, their light conversation seeming to be enough to chip into the walls Dream kept so strong around him.

A sharp, ear-ringing beeping is what drove a sharp nail in their plans, popping the small bubble of tranquility they’d crafted.

Dream’s head snapped to the sound of the noise, a half-smashed smoke-detector was giving it’s very last cries of life as the fumes from the fire engulphed it fully.

That’s when it hit them.

The two men turned to one another, a fresh and promising idea firm in their minds and smile on their lips.

_That would work._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long everyone! School work piled up and it was hard to manage my time, all done until the New Year now though, should be able to pump out a few more chapters in the coming weeks!  
> Let me know what you thought about this chapter or their idea in the comments! Thanks!


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